


This Doesn't Feel Like Love Anymore

by toffeetm



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Enemies to Lovers to Enemies, Fluff and Angst, M/M, except for the fact it was my birthday, my stupid birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toffeetm/pseuds/toffeetm
Summary: For the Enemies to Lovers to Enemies prompt: "This doesn't feel like love anymore"
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	This Doesn't Feel Like Love Anymore

It had started during the strike. Spot led an army of angry Brooklyn boys across the bridge into Manhattan, and then, he sort of just stuck around to see how it would all pan out. It certainly had nothing to do with one particularly loud and annoying boy who lived there.

Spot knew Race, or more acurately, he knew _of_ Race. Race frequently crossed into Brooklyn territory to sell papes at Sheepshead, and, initially, the only thing that held Spot back from soaking him was not wanting to cause a rift with Manhattan. Things were tense enough between the boroughs, and one kid wasn’t worth starting shit over. Besides, Spot kept his boys far away from Sheepshead, not wanting them to squander their earnings betting on horses, so Race wasn’t really stealing anyone’s customers. Spot told himself that Race earning and spending money at Sheepshead was good for the Brooklyn economy or something like that, so he let him get away with it, for the economy, not because he had cute face.

Spot had followed the ‘Hattan boys into Tibby’s to celebrate their newfound fame on the front page of the _Sun_. Now that they were face to face, singing and dancing together, he had to admit, Race _was_ pretty. So pretty that Spot was zoning out just thinking about him as he sat at a table near the door, glass in hand.

“Seeya tomorrow, Spot,” Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Spot bristled, but refrained from swatting at him as he was shaken back to reality.

“G’night, Kelly.” Spot watched as the Manhattan boys filed out behind their leader.

Spot leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. It had been a long day and he really didn’t feel like walking all the way back to Brooklyn. He wasn’t normally one to shirk responsibility, but after such an exhausting day, he assumed his boys wouldn’t have any trouble getting to sleep.

Spot opened his eyes at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and he shifted forward so all four of the chair legs were back on the ground. Race had pulled up the chair across from him.

“Hiya, Spot,” he said, grinning.

“Race.” Spot nodded.

“You movin’ to ‘Hatten, now?”

Spot chuckled, “I don’t know if I’m quite sold yet.”

“I could show you a few things that might change your mind.” Spot squinted his eyes and frowned, trying to decide if Race was flirting with him.

“I mean, not that Brooklyn’s bad,” Race continued, mistaking Spot’s confusion for anger, and quickly backtracking. “It’s a great place, you gots lots of nice things over there.”

“Yeah, you would know, you spend enough time over on my turf.” Spot joked.

“Hey, I’m not taking any ‘a your boys’ sellin’ spots!” Race was relieved that he hadn’t actually upset Spot.

“Never said you were, I was just makin’ an observation.”

“Oh, so you observe me?” Race’s tone crept back toward flirty.

“Yeah, I do.” Spot stood up and carried his empty glass up the counter, turning his back on Race to hide the blush forming on his cheeks. Race followed him, downing the rest of his drink and stacking his glass next to Spot’s.

“I’ve uhh, I’ve observed you, too.” Race followed Spot out the door as the bell jangled behind them cheerfully.

Spot laughed, “I bet you have.”

Spot walked ahead a few paces, then turned back to look at Race, who was leaning against the door and making a clear show of ‘observing’ Spot, looking him up and down. Spot rolled his eyes, more annoyed by the smirk that crept onto his face than by the boy who caused it, and started walking again.

Race caught up to walk beside Spot. “Manhattan at night,” he breathed. “This is the peak of living.” He ran ahead and spun in a circle with his arms outstretched. “You’d be a fool not to want to live here!

“What’s one good that Brooklyn’s got that we’se don’t?”

Spot smiled. “Me, apparently.”

Race fell in step beside Spot once again and elbowed him in the side. “Not yet we don’t.”

Race looked around the city as if seeing it for the first time. Manhattan at night really had that effect, a certain magic that made it seem as though anything could happen. Spot’s hand accidentally brushed against Race’s knuckles and he reflexively jerked it away and kept looking forward as they walked without a destination.

Race was whistling what sounded like ‘look at me, I’m the King of New York,’ and seemed not to notice the accidental contact.

“So, do you just wanna walk around, or…? I’m sure Jack’ll let you crash at the lodging house if you want.”

“I’m not really tired yet.” Spot stifled a yawn; he was dead tired but didn’t want to stop spending time with Race. “And you still haven’t convinced me to move to Manhattan.”

“Right, right, and how am I gonna do that?”

“Give me a reason why Manhattan is better.”

“Okay.” Race grabbed Spot’s hand. Apparently, he had felt it before.

Spot let out a surprised sound, “That’s a start.”

“Yeah?” Race jerked him into an alley between two buildings. Race backed up against the building and pulled Spot into a kiss that ended much too soon.

“Does this mean if we ever start sellin’ papes again I can come back to Brooklyn?” Race asked. It wasn’t that he wasn’t fazed by the kiss, he just responded to nervous energy with talking. A lot of talking. “Maybe I’ll move to Brooklyn instead of you coming to Manhattan.”

“Yeah, whatever you want,” Spot mumbled, kissing Race again.

“This is nice, we should do this more often.”

“No shit,” Spot bit at Race’s lip.

Race pulled back slightly, “Did you’se always like me and that’s why you let me—”

Spot cut him off again, pushing closer to keep him from pulling away to start talking again.

* * *

That first night in Manhattan was the start of something exciting, scary, and a little dangerous. And that wasn’t even considering the strike.

Each rare, spare moment over the next few days found Spot and Race making out in some dark alleyway or shadowy corner. They hadn’t talked about what their relationship meant, or what would happen once the strike was over, and Spot lost his excuse to spend so much time in Manhattan. As often as Race went to Brooklyn, it just wouldn’t be the same. Spot had more eyes on him, it would be harder to hide their relationship, if it was even a relationship.

After Jack was taken away from the rally, Spot sat on the stairs outside the Manhattan lodging house as Race paced in front of him and smoked his way through a cigar at an alarming speed that a cigar was not meant to be smoked.

He stopped suddenly, “Am I in charge, now?”

Spot shrugged and looked back at the door of the lodging house. It was almost 11pm and there wasn’t any noise coming from inside, meaning the boys must have all gone to bed.

“Shit, I can’t be in charge.”

“Race, it’s gonna be fine. I’m sure Jack will find a way to get out of this.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Well, I run a whole borough. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Race gave him a confused look, “But, you’re… you! I don’t gots ya reputation, an intimidating-ass pimp cane,” Spot reached out with his cane and poked Race in the side, causing him to laugh, “or your cute face!”

“You got a cuter face than me, and you gots all those other things too, ‘cause you gots me,” Spot stood up and took a step toward Race. Race had seemed to rise back into high spirits as quickly as he had sunk into worry.

Race tossed away the rest of his cigar and pulled Spot into a kiss. At the sound of footsteps, the two jumped about a mile apart. Davey came barreling toward the lodging house, and in that moment, Race really did have to help lead Manhattan. The boys went inside the lodging house and sat around Kloppman’s desk on the first floor to discuss the strike in hushed tones, Spot right by Race’s side, as promised.

* * *

The next few days were filled with ups and downs, as the strike seemed to be over as quickly as it had started. For Race, the excitement of standing up to Pulitzer was overshadowed by the sight of Spot being driven back to Brooklyn in Roosevelt’s carriage. He couldn’t help but feel as through things wouldn’t be able to stay the same between them. Spot had returned to Brooklyn without so much as setting up a time to see Race. It had been over a week since Spot had really paid much attention to his newsies in particular, but Race couldn’t help but selfishly wish he actually had been able to convince Spot to move to Manhattan.

Race still crossed the bridge nearly every day to go to Sheepshead to earn a little bit of money selling papes, and lose a lot more money making lousy bets. Before the strike, he had always hurried past the Brooklyn lodging house, sometimes even taking a longer route to avoid passing it, but now he slowed down, taking his time to look at the small window at the very peak of the roof that he knew led to Spot’s room. Spot was probably out selling, or just sitting around looking threatening and unapproachable, Race had never actually seen him sell a pape. But, it was nice to be a part of Spot’s world, to even know which window was his.

“What’re you’se doin’ in Brooklyn? You fixin’ to steal my customers?”

Race turned around and was somewhat embarrassed at how quickly his face broke into a blush and a grin at the sight of Spot. Tongue tied and unable to form a snarky comment, Race responded, “Nah, just coming to see you.”

“Hmm, guess I’ll allow it,” said Spot, rubbing his chin as if he actually had to think about it.

Race tucked his papes under an arm, lighting the cigar that he had been holding between his teeth. The wind coming off the river made it difficult to light and Spot moved to block the wind for him, rolling his eyes.

“You showed me Manhattan, I’ll show you ‘round Brooklyn, c’mon.”

Race was more familiar with Brooklyn than Spot had been with Manhattan, but he didn’t protest as Spot grabbed his hand and led him around the docks surrounding the lodging house. Spot pointed out the various places where he had gotten into (and won) fights, and Race tried to act like he was not both simultaneously very attracted and a little afraid of Spot. They made their way to one of the lowest platforms and sat down with their legs dangling over the edge of the dock. Spot grabbed the cigar out of Race’s mouth.

“Hey! That’s my cigar!”

Spot raised an eyebrow and brought it to his lips.

“I thought you didn’t even like cigars,” Race grumbled.

“I like them when they taste like you.”

The cigar was quickly pressed out onto the smooth wood of the dock and forgotten in favor of actually tasting Race’s lips.

* * *

There were more days like that. Days that just felt right, happy, and good, like everything was going to work out. Race sold his papes as quickly as possible, then went to find Spot and they spent their evenings together. But it was always like that. Race going to Brooklyn. Race finding Spot. Race putting in the effort. Sure, Spot had lots of responsibilities running Brooklyn, but he could have gone to see Race in Manhattan just once, right? Race didn’t mind going to see Spot, but he wished Spot would do something to show that he actually cared about their relationship. So Race confronted him.

“Why’d’ya never come to Manhattan?”

Spot and Race were sitting on the small section of roof that hung over the back door of the Brooklyn lodging house and sharing a bottle of some shitty, cheap alcohol.

“I gots a lot goin’ on here, Race. I gotta be here in case someone needs me.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Race’s voice faded out before he could say, ‘but I need you, too.’ “I just feel like you aren’t tryin’ to make this work.”

“I’m not trying?! Race, you were the one having a breakdown at the prospect of running a borough for a few days! This is my fucking life!”

Race swallowed.

“Do you even know how much shit I have to deal with?”

Race shook his head. He didn’t like being yelled at, and he definitely didn’t like being yelled at by Spot.

“Every day it’s something new, someone’s sick, someone got in a fight, someone’s hungry, Manhattan goes on strike over a goddamn tenth of a cent! And I’m the one who has to make all ‘a the decisions! I hardly have time—” Spot hesitated, and Race’s mind filled in the rest, ‘I hardly have time for you.’

“I’m sorry,” Race said in a small voice. He wasn’t normally one to back down from a fight, but Spot hadn’t said anything he could argue against. Spot was a leader, he was important, people counted on him, and Race was just a pretty face to him.

“Forget it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Spot’s name was called from somewhere inside the lodging house. Spot let out a breath of air and stood to go inside, handing the bottle to Race. He paused at the open window.

“Hey, Spot,” Race started. “Do ya think you could, though?”

“Huh?”

“Come see me in ‘Hattan sometime?”

“I don’t know—”

“This Friday’s m’birthday.”

“Oh,” Spot’s tone softened slightly. “Yeah, I could probably be there at like 9pm?”

Spot crawled through the window without any further goodbye, and left Race sitting alone on the roof, which would have been a dangerous combination any time, but the addition of alcohol made it even more so. Race followed into the lodging house before he could fall and break his neck, and made his way back to Manhattan feeling empty.

* * *

On Friday night, Race sat on Kloppman’s desk and watched the clock on the wall, absently tapping his heel against the base of the desk in time with the ticking, and humming, ‘happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me.’ It was almost 10pm and Spot still hadn’t shown up. It was dark outside and even though Race trusted Spot to take care of himself, Race couldn’t help but worry. He waited another five minutes, then jumped off the desk and walked out onto the dark streets of Manhattan, heading toward the bridge. If Spot wouldn’t come to him, Race would go to him, and give him a piece of his mind. Race grew more and more frustrated with each step, and justified the anger in his mind, convincing himself that Spot never cared about him and refused to put in any effort and had just been leading him on. By the time Race made it to the bridge, he had made up his mind that he hated Spot and huffed out an irritated sigh before beginning to cross into Brooklyn.

It was dark over the water between the sparse streetlights on the bridge, and about halfway through his angry stomping across the bridge, Race smacked directly into another person. A fist flew into his jaw before he could even react, knocking him sideways toward the railing.

“The fuck d’ya think you’re goin’?” the assailant growled, stepping closer. A car drove by, illuminating the scene, and the tone changed entirely. “Shit, Race?!”

Spot, realizing it was his own dumb boyfriend who had run into him, quickly moved forward to grab Race more tenderly.

“What the fuck, Spot?” Race spit. He was more mad about Spot not coming over to Manhattan at 9, but the punch hadn’t helped his mood.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you! Happy birthday!”

“I didn’t mean the fuckin’ punch, where were you?!”

“I—” Race cut off Spot by punching him in the face. He hit Spot’s cheekbone and his knuckles throbbed.

“What’re you doing?” Spot yelled as Race connected another punch with the side of Spot’s face.

Spot grabbed at his arms and attempted to push him against the railing of the bridge. Race kicked him in the shin and Spot dropped his arms, taking a step back.

“What the fuck? Why are you hurting me? I love you!” Spot screamed, his voice cracking.

Race froze for a second, fist raised and poised to punch Spot in the mouth. He realized they were both crying. It was the first time Spot had said he loved him, but at this point, it just hurt Race even more. **“This doesn’t feel like love anymore.”** He finished the punch with significantly less gusto than he had planned, and Spot just stood there and took it. Spot kept his mouth clenched shut and breathed loudly through his nose as he watched Race walk back across the bridge to Manhattan.

Race disappeared into the dark night and a few minutes past as Spot stood on the bridge, staring at the lights of Manhattan in the distance. He leaned over the railing and screamed into the dark water below.

* * *

Race left an hour earlier than normal to go selling next day so he could walk a roundabout route to avoid crossing as many Brooklyn newsies as possible. The Brooklyn Bridge was an unavoidable evil though, even an hour earlier in the day, and Race hurried past the seething glares of countless angry Brooklyn boys. He didn’t see Spot, but he could feel him in every glare directed his way. Race hadn’t done anything wrong; it was Spot who hadn’t put any effort into their relationship, Spot who had ruined it. That’s what Race kept telling himself at least, though a part of him was still stuck on Spot screaming that he loved him the night before, wondering if maybe it was Race who had overreacted.

Race distracted himself with his work, pawning off bad news and betting on all the wrong horses. It took his mind off of Spot for a bit, but the return trip to Manhattan across the bridge loomed over him all day.

Sure enough, on his way back from the racetrack, Race saw him. Spot was standing at the end of the bridge, face peppered with bruises and arms crossed confrontationally as he talked to the small group of Brooklyn newsies gathered around him. He glanced up as Race neared, squaring his jaw and straightening his posture. Race looked Spot dead in the eye as he approached, and brushed past him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fic, thanks for reading!  
> Find me on Tumblr @spotsbis


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